


The Greatest Dancer in Wakanda

by Mozart (BlondeMelancholic)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Father's Day, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, Not Canon Compliant, Parenthood, have i exhausted the father tags, i'm sure i mess it up somewhere smh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-15 23:07:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7242505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlondeMelancholic/pseuds/Mozart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're satisfied with whatever your child grows up to be, as long as he is happy. Of course, you married royalty, so matters are rarely that simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Greatest Dancer in Wakanda

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know what i'm doing with this but happy father's day to all, especially the baby daddies of my oc, double-especially to my own gr8 dad who would not have taken it well if i had become a dancer but would have put on a brave face anyway.
> 
> i mean c'mon t'challa you have like 10 jobs, let ya kid have three or four

You know that you should be doing something more productive with the child, but you’re so worn out that you feel like a deflated balloon and all you want to do is lie on the couch. So you do, the prince a roly-poly sack of potatoes on your stomach as you stare at the TV with glazed eyes. True, the child care of such an infant should be a bit more splendiferous, but you’re so exhausted that you’d be damned if anyone strolled by and criticized your momentary child-rearing practices. You might not be the Black Panther, but that doesn’t mean you can’t start a catfight every now and again.

“I see you’re both having a good time,” a voice behind you says, and you straighten up immediately as the father of the prince approaches with a sly smile on his face. At your startled expression he says innocently, “I didn’t surprise you, did I?”

“I should put a bell on you,” you grumble, returning to a comfy position on the sofa. The baby, rudely awoken from his dozing, makes a little noise of complaint. “Is that any way to treat the mother of your child, your Majesty?”

T’Challa is standing in front of you now, all virile masculinity and quiet confidence, but that softens a bit when he pinches the chubby cheek of his son. “You’ll have to get used to it. Soon there will be two of us sneaking up on you.”

“Soon, but not now.” You smile at the prince, who looked up at his father with slack-jawed interest (a sentiment you too have often felt) but who now closes his eyes, ready to resume his nap. “He’s so chubby, all he can probably do is roll.”

“Not yet as graceful as his mother is.”

He’s looking at what you have playing on the TV. It’s a recording of a dance performance, and all the dancers are dressed in elegant, brightly-colored outfit. The camera lingers on the star of the show, a gorgeous woman who captivates the audience with a single glance from her intense eyes. Each movement is meaningful yet fluid, perfected from hours of demanding practice. Born to be a star, born for the rapt attention to be entirely focused on her.

Of course, she’s not you; you are in the back somewhere, a backup dancer, apparently not molded by the gods of the arts to be suited for center stage. The camera passes over your face maybe twice during the whole recording, otherwise moving so quickly that you can hardly recognize yourself. But it doesn’t bother you – here, the camera is not supposed to linger on you, nor or the eyes of the audience. And yet someone’s eyes did, and you give that someone a fond look.

“Your performance was always so passionate,” T’Challa says appreciatively, as if reading your mind. “So intense, I couldn’t look away.” He looks over at your son, already fast asleep on your stomach. “I’m afraid our son is not quite so captivated.”

You smile, recalling how the child usually claps and burbles at the sight of the bright, spinning colors. You hope that he can recognize you, underneath all the finery. “He usually is, but – well, you know it’s close to his naptime. Even the son of the Black Panther needs his rest, you know.”

“Hmm. He had better enjoy it while it lasts. One day he will be the Black Panther, and he will sorely miss the opportunity.”

“Well, _I’m_ not the Black Panther, and I’d still kill for some naptime.”

“We are both new parents, after all.” He’s standing closer now, observing his tiny child as he sleeps on your bare stomach, your shirt pulled up to your chest. You don’t know if he is seeing what his son is now, or looking ahead at what he will become. “Though perhaps I do envy his location.”

You make a face at his words, though you’re secretly pleased as he reaches out to touch your cheek, to gently rub your hair between his fingers. Still, you can’t help but be caught up on something he’s said, something that has been going through your mind for a while. With a frown, you say, “Your Majesty…”

He scoffs. “Will you always call me that?”

“Oh, maybe. I just…” You trail off, looking at your young son. He’s so big already and yet you know how young he is, how small, how dependent he is on the two of you for his safety. “What if he’s – not what you expected?”

“Not what I expected? He is perfect.” Which is more, you suppose, anyone could say about the veritable sack of pudding that was your sleepy son. “I can thank you for that.”

“Of course, he’s wonderful. What I mean is…” You furrow your brow as you look back to the television screen, where the dancers move in unison, their outfits swirling around them. You can still feel the weight of yours around you, see the harsh stage lights even when you close your eyes. Perhaps you were not born for stardom, but you knew that you had always wanted to dance. “Obviously he’s the prince, and he can’t change that. But what if he’s not made to be the Black Panther?”

T’Challa is looking at you seriously now, and you know that you have to tread carefully before you stomp all over his honor. “It is a responsibility that has spanned generations. I will raise him to be aware of his duty to his country, and his people.”

“And you _should._ But I don’t want you to be disappointed if he turns out like…” You hesitate, already knowing how dumb and non-badass it will sound. “You know – like me.”

He’s genuinely confused; obviously he likes you, so it doesn’t bother him if your son turns out like you, personality-wise. You must be talking about your career. “You want him to be a dancer?”

“No! Well – I want him to be whatever he wants. My parents wanted me to be a lawyer, you know. And it’s not the same thing, I know. But I just…” You sigh, not sure where you’re going with this. Surely you had no responsibility to be a superhero, no royalty in your blood, no real responsibility other than making sure you didn’t end up dazed in a gutter somewhere, missing some organs. “Ah, forget it; I don’t know what I’m saying. Obviously I need to shut my eyes, too.”

He smooths your hair back, wanting to relax you. You only created a person for him; you deserve a break. “He’s still so young. He has a long way to go before he’s responsible for anything.”

“Outside of keeping my tits in his mouth, maybe,” you grumble, making a face as you patted your aching breast. “I know you envy _that_ position. Hey, there you go – I’ll get right down to cooking another one up for you, and then we’ll go from there…”

Amused, he chuckles, remembering when your stomach was swollen: when you’d wake up in the middle of the night howling about a craving, when you had sat down and cried for twenty minutes because you had accidentally broken one of two vases that had come in a set, and you had thought about how heartbroken the other vase was without its friend. “I’m sure we can hold off on that for a little while yet. We’ve still got this one to raise.”

“That’s right.” He is close to you, but your voice sounds so far away, so soft, so thick with sleep. “T’Challa?”

“Yes?” You must be tired, to forget to tease him with his title.

There is a tremor of anxiety in your tone when you ask, “You’d still love him, though, right?”

He doesn’t need to hesitate, never does. “No matter what may come. That’s a promise.”

“Hmm.” You seem to be sinking further and further into the sofa, but you are determined to keep your eyes open. “I’m glad.”

“But I told you already – there is no need to worry. He’s much too young for fighting, or dancing.”

“Definitely not too young to fight. He had no trouble trying to fight off whatever he thought was on the other side of my stomach…”

Amused, he smiles. “Defending his mother early. I’m very proud.”

“Because _you_ didn’t have to feel it…” But you’re losing your own battle, your eyes closing, and each time it takes longer and longer for you to open them again. “All the kicking he was doing, he might very well be the next Black Panther.” You hesitate, though, taking one last glance at the sleeping bundle on your stomach. “Do you think he’d be a good dancer? Just hypothetically. Maybe he’ll be really uncoordinated… Then he won’t succeed at either position…”

He remembers when you were clumsy with the advanced stages of your pregnancy, waddling here and there, totally unconcerned with receiving some extra help as you tried to pretend like you hadn’t temporarily lost all your good balance. He had worried about you so much then, had sat up awake at night wondering about what sort of a parent he would be. But you had been rather unconcerned, confident that everything would work out eventually, that loving your son would be enough to secure a happy future. Is it true? He’s not sure, but it doesn’t hurt to dispense it, anyway.

T’Challa leaves the room for just a moment, and when he returns he figures that he has a proper sort of monologue ready: that he had understood his duty from a very young age, that Wakanda could not go without its protector for the sake of pursuing a different interest, that becoming the Black Panther was a noble and worthy goal in itself. But he loses his train of thought when he returns to find that you have already fallen fast asleep, splayed out on the couch with his child on top of you. For a moment he has to marvel over the similarities between you: the way you hold your arms out as you’re asleep, your inability to keep your mouths completely closed for even a second, the synchronized rise and fall of your chests as you breathe. With pride, he had long suspected that his child would resemble him the most, but there are times when he wonders if he might take after you more, and the idea does not displease him.

He moves to turn the television off for you, not wanting the precious slumber to be disturbed. But he lets the performance continue for just a few more minutes; he knows this recording inside and out, and knows exactly when you appear on screen. Sure enough, you cross in front of the camera during a rare close-up, and even after all this time, his breath catches a little when he sees you. You’re even more gorgeous than usual there, seemingly totally unaffected by the demanding physicality and the harsh lights of the stage, the intensity of your gaze taking him to another plane. Or, perhaps, another reality, one where responsibility and duty do not exist, where his son might as well shove his tiny fist into a hat and pull his future career out at random. And in that reality he sees his son there on stage, following in his mother’s footsteps, grown and handsome and captivating the audience with every graceful movement. 

He has to turn the television off before he gets too carried away. No – his son is the prince of Wakanda, the heir to the throne and the eventual successor of his other titles. That much can’t be changed. As a father, he is determined to instill in his son the values that his own father had in him; but also as a father, he wants to see what his son would be like if he could grow up unguided by such responsibilities, to see what sort of a man he would become, and he wants to protect him from whatever threatens his dreams and aspirations. And yet, like you, the only thing he truly wants is for the child to be happy, to be safe, to know how deeply he is loved.

With a sigh, he crosses over to the both of you, to his family. He pinches the chubby cheek of his son with a smile, watching over his peaceful and crumpled form, wondering what sorts of thoughts are crossing his mind as he dreams. The child has seen so little of the world already, and there are so many experiences left waiting for him. Not all of them will be pleasant, his father knows, but he will have his mother and father there with him; that can reduce even looming mountains into gentle slopes. 

Pride and confidence stir in his chest. After your child was born, he was struck by the notion that, although he was king and genius and protector of his people, he was completely out of his depth in caring for an infant, and he was haplessly certain that he knew nothing about the practice. Yet he had survived, and so had you, and he feels that he knows much more now; certainly, he is confident when he finally answers the question you had sleepily posed earlier.

“He would be the greatest dancer in all of Wakanda,” he says. Before he leaves, he reaches out again, but this time it’s _your_ cheek he pinches gently. You mumbles something in your sleep, but you don’t turn away, and you even seem to relax a little. 

You’ve run yourself ragged in caring for the infant, and he’s glad to see you look so peaceful in sleep. Suddenly he does not want to leave, and he gradually eases himself down to where he is lying on the floor, looking up at the two of you. He has some time to spare, and he would like to spend it here. He’s not certain how long he stays like that, the three of you suspended in time, but he guesses that it’s quite a while.


End file.
